August 8, 2010

I've stopped addressing my blog entries as Sherlock seems to think it's idiotic. 'Little girls keep diaries about their feelings, grown men take notes about facts.' Not that he knows anything about feelings. He does have a point though; this is only something I've been keeping up because I have to. It's supposed to help me "adjust" to normal life.

What is "normal" life? Certainly not my life, not with a flatmate like Sherlock, and today was just another reminder of that.

I suppose I should start from the beginning.

Today started out as what you might classify as "normal." We were out of milk and eggs, which wouldn't be so odd if either of us cooked more than on occasion. I noticed an odd smell about the place, but Sherlock swears it was my imagination. Sometimes it's simply better not to ask.

The eggs we could live without, but milk? I headed out to pick some up while Sherlock stayed at the flat and did... whatever it is he does. For once, the machine didn't argue with me and I was able to complete my purchase without an incident. With my milk and air freshener (I have a feeling that smell's only going to get worse. Sherlock's going to have to deal with the wonderfully fresh scent of pine instead) in the bag, I started back.

It rained. Still normal, though unpleasant when having to walk. Lately I've kept my distance from cabs.

I had hardly gotten in the door when Sherlock started speaking a mile a minute. I had to tell him to slow down because I didn't follow, and he looked at me like I'm an idiot.

Still normal at this point. To him, everyone's an idiot.

"There's been a murder!" He exclaimed, far too excited than he ought to have been as he tied on his scarf. I might have been a bit too – for a new case, that is. Sitting around the flat gets a bit dull. "Come along, John!" Sherlock had practically bounded out the door.

"Hang on, the milk!" I quickly grabbed it from the bag and started for the kitchen.

He was back, and grabbed it from me. When Sherlock Holmes is anxious or excited, I dare anyone to try to slow him down.

"Never mind the milk!" He slammed it down on the table, and once more bounded towards the door. "This is far more important!"

Would he be saying that if he had paid for it?

... Come to think of it, probably.

I owe Mrs. Hudson a thank you for putting it away while we were out.

This is the part where it starts to get sort of unusual, at least from how the majority of society lives.

Sherlock walked past the police detectives without so much as a word. Detective Inspector Lestrade must have told him to hold his tongue today. I don't know why he listened, but I saw the ghost of a smile that curved his mouth as we passed by certain people, namely Anderson.

The crime scene itself was a large building; a museum. The body had been placed in one of the new exhibits that was still under construction. Sherlock looked down at the limp form; a male, teenaged to mid twenties, light brown hair and average physical build. His clothing was torn and old; at first glance, I made him out to be homeless.

After shooing everyone away, he knelt down and began examination of the body. He motioned for me to do the same.

"What's with Anderson this time?" I couldn't help but ask.

Sherlock grinned. "Trouble with his wife. He has a scratch by his ear which I'd wager goes clear across his face. He's attempted to cover it with makeup, and poorly chosen; it's slightly darker than his actual skin tone."

"How do you know it's his wife?"

"The wound is too clean for it to be done with actual nails. People bite their nails or wear them down throughout the course of day to day life. These were acrylic nails. She brought him his lunch at the station last week; long and red," Sherlock answered, examining the hand of the man, whom I had noticed was missed all of his fingertips with the exception of his smallest finger. "What do you make of this?"

"Someone didn't want him to be identified?" I suggested, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree.

"If you wanted to hide the identity, you would cut off all the finger tips, or the whole hand," he replied. "Instead, both pinkys are left." He turned the mans head and pulled open his mouth. "All of his teeth are still in place."

"A trophy then?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock noted, but he still didn't seem convinced. "Touch his skin and clothing."

I did. "It's cold," I reported. "Like ice." I looked around the large, spacious room. "It shouldn't be... right?"

Sherlock nodded. "With the renovations, the air-conditioning is down. Even if it had been working, he should not be this cold. He was frozen, and then placed here. Look how he's lying; he obviously didn't die here."

The man was curled in a position as though he had simply fallen asleep. I got to my feet. He looked like a homeless person who had just wandered in off the street.

"Have anything?" Lestrade asked, approaching us.

"He's a wealthy man, despite his rags. His hands are smooth; he's probably never worked a day in his life. His hair is neatly trimmed, and he has a slight tan around his wrists. This suggests either a suit or a uniform worn on a daily basis. Given his athletic state, and the tattoo on the back of his neck, just below where a collar would be, I put him a student, final year of school," Sherlock explained. "An expensive school with uniforms. Rebellious yet not outwardly; likely just got self satisfaction from it. He has a slight paper cut on what's left of his thumb and index finger; he read a lot. This suggests that he studied. His right wrist has a rash where a watch probably was; he's allergic to metals, yet he cares about the time too much to take it off. If he's a dedicated student at a high end school, he's going to be missed."

Lestrade nodded. "I'll get missing persons reports from the last month. Because he was frozen we're not sure his time of death yet."

Sherlock is yelling about something, I had better get off and see what it is. I'll post the rest in a bit.

-Dr. John Watson